Mirror
by thesunshinekid
Summary: The trouble with mirrors is that they tell the truth. For an angry newborn vampire, the truth is the last thing you want to hear.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Hello my fello fans! It took me longer than I anticipated (four months, instead of just one!), but here I am! This piece will serve as a standalone, but also as a prequel: for fans of my "So Fair and Foul a Day" and "On My Own" this is the promised story of how Molly Johnston came to be Molly Johnston. As always, reviews are welcomed.**

**Disclaimer: I own neither Twilight nor it's respective characters.**

Prologue

A Now-Abandoned House in the Outskirts of Chicago, 1939

I stared at the cracked hand mirror, unsure. What was I seeing? Each break moved like a cobweb across the glass, in between brown clusters of dirt and the yellow signs of age. It was like someone had taken a photograph and ripped it into tiny shreds before piecing it back together again; disjointed and disfigured. _My reflection, _I thought with a hint of irony; the picture my newly sharpened eyesight absorbed was just as broken as I was – the fragments of my person just like the fragments of the mirror.

I couldn't remember the last time that I had seen my reflection, so I didn't know which features to attribute to those painful days I'd just endured – because it had to be days, at least - and which to attribute to the rotten card life had dealt me from the very beginning. I wasn't thick; it hadn't taken me long to figure out what had happened. Despite the agony I endured – agony wasn't a strong enough word – my mind was quicker than before. The evidence stacked up neatly; the strange man, the way he looked at me, the way things smelled – things I _wanted_ now – things that would have revolted me before. I had become a thing now relegated to myths; a dangerous creature that I'd never believed in until it was too late. The events of the past twenty-four hours had proven it, had changed everything I ever believed about myself.

I was no longer weak. I was no longer just worthless scum, unfit for society, a disgrace by all counts. I had power now. I was filled with anger, and I could use it; I had been graced with the ability to kill, quick and ruthless and _satisfying_. I wasn't used to this, being a vampire, but one thing was certain; I didn't hate it.

I smiled into the mirror; for the first time in years my smile filled my whole face, shining from behind bright red eyes.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Our Lady's Children's Home

My father died young, thirty years old, and too suddenly to bother about leaving a will. It was during a time later named "the Great Depression" and he had just been told that his comfortable job at the bank no longer existed. My distraught mother, whom he lovingly called "Margaret Rose Dear," could do nothing in her grief but spend money; on toys, on furniture for the house, on knick-knacks and an assortment of lace and linen she would never use, for she was a mediocre seamstress at best. I don't remember the day my father died, or the funeral; I only remember when he was alive, and used to sit with me and my dolls and tell me stories. He seemed happy when he was with me, and my childish mind never did understand why a happy man would jump from a building. Perhaps he thought it would be fun, and didn't think that he would get hurt until it was too late? My mother, in her flurry of trying to make things right in her own world, never tried to make things right in my little world – and for a long time I held that as the first mistake she made in a long line of messy blunders.

When it became known that my father hadn't left a will and that there was no more money for my troubled mother to spend, she picked herself up from her downward spiral and began searching for jobs. An uneducated woman of twenty-eight with a child, she scurried around fruitlessly, learning to use a typewriter and watching the other neighborhood children for money. There were no jobs - for anyone - much less unhappy Margaret Rose.

We drove past Our Lady's Children's Home in my father's automobile once, when I was very young, and I remembered my mother's voice as she explained that "those children have no parents" and that the orphanage kept them from making mischief in the streets, and we should pray for them. In my mind, orphans became creatures prone to bad deeds and must have done something horrible that they weren't allowed to have parents. The day that my mother walked me up to the front entrance of the orphanage, I didn't remember this first impression – I recall instead the panic that overtook me, and my own form of grief as Sister Ethel - the nun in charge - pulled me away from my mother, and Margaret Rose's feeble promises to come back for me once times were better.

Later, in my bed at night, I would remember that first impression I had as a young child, and the feeling of hopelessness that I had no parents, that I must have been such a bad little girl that they were taken from me. I learned quickly in the orphanage that, as an only child, I had been spoilt and used to too much attention. I sank into myself and didn't play with the other little girls, in case I was so bad that their parents wouldn't come back for them. I hoped that my mother would come back for me, like she promised, but it was a thin, frail sort of hope.

I didn't listen during mass every week; instead I would sit and pray for my mother to come back, or pray that I would be adopted by a lovely lady who would give me presents and treats and would smell of oranges and take me to California. I promised God that I would be good, but the years passed and my mother – real or imaginary - never came for me.

I was ten years old when Sister Ethel called me into her office; I had been here for four years. I didn't dare expect that Margaret Rose had come back – I would have been called into the front company room instead. I only hoped that whatever I had done didn't merit too severe of a punishment.

"2352." The definitive sound of those numbers rang across the crowded dorm room, and my head snapped up. I was used to responding to my number now, though the other girls and boys in my class called me "Curly;" my hair was a wild mop of black frizzy curls that would never braid neatly like it was supposed to, never tamed the way Margaret Rose had kept it. Sister Hazel, an aging woman who was in charge of our class, would always say that I looked like a little devil that had been running in the wind. My given name, Mildred – my father called me "Little Millie" – felt foreign on my tongue and sounded awkward the few times I heard it. I didn't look like a Mildred, I looked like a scrawny Curly.

I had followed the young nun to Sister Ethel's office and waited for her pronouncement. This was a dark room with only a single lamp on the square desk, and the walls were white and the floor was made of wood and was cold under my bare feet. I didn't have time to find my shoes. I wondered idly if this was what it would feel like waiting at Heaven's gates for St. Peter to tell us if we were allowed in or not.

"You are ten years old now," she began in her deep, almost masculine tone. It would have been comical, had she not been such a fearsome creature with an unsympathetic face constantly set into a scowl. My mind jumped ahead – had I been in some way irresponsible? I couldn't recall any particular instances – I was too nervous.

She continued, "You are old enough now to begin working with us in our services to the Lord. Starting tomorrow, after your morning classes, you will help Sister Mary in the nursery."

Sister Mary, the young nun who led me to the room, now emerged from her hiding place in the shadow of a coat rack, to take me back to my dorm.

I had been working two days in the nursery when I was witness to my first tragedy; the arrival of an abandoned newborn girl. Sister Mary was supposed to call her by an assigned number – 2907 – but the young woman had a soft streak to her, and named the infant Molly. Sister Mary was the tallest of the nuns that ran the orphanage, but excessively skinny, with sunken eyes and pale skin. I had heard the whispers around the home that she was ill, that she wouldn't eat anything. This shocked me; who would refuse food, when at any time they could be tossed away from the orphanage and have no food at all? Regardless, for every inch she was taller and thinner than the other nuns, she was also that much kinder. When we were tending to the youngest children in the nursery – the ones we were responsible for – she would talk to me, even though I was too afraid to reply. She would tell stories of her youth, and tales of the tricks the little boys had played on Father Scott.

Sister Mary told me, one day, that if she had not become a nun, she would have loved to be a mother. She would have a daughter, and she would name her Molly, she said. I held my tongue from telling her that I wouldn't like for her to be a mother – mothers made promises they couldn't keep, and fathers killed themselves, and why would anyone want to be a mother if it was sure to bring such bad luck? I much preferred Sister Mary as a nun, who would talk to me and laugh as she told stories.

Baby Molly, for arriving so starved and abused, had a sweet disposition. She had big blue eyes that darted around as if searching for something until she was picked up, when she would give her holder her full attention. When she smiled, it was tentative, only a slight curving of the lips as if she was afraid to be too cheerful, lest she get hit.

The first time I met Molly was the first time I remember feeling sad for another one of the orphans at Our Lady's. It had never occurred to me before, that having barely entered the world she didn't get a family or love or toys and friends and a daddy to tell stories to her and her dolls. Why did I – spoiled and stupid and scared – deserve to have all of that for so many years, if she didn't?

At mass the next morning, I prayed the hardest I ever had that God would send a family to adopt this baby girl.

During my first years at the orphanage each hour seemed to meld into another, and I didn't remember specific events or days. I spent much more time remembering the times when I was happy and loved. I didn't like sitting through classes at school when I could be drawing pictures and sketches, and so I didn't listen much of the time, daydreaming instead. Sister Hazel believed I must be dim, and told me so often, eventually just leaving me to my own devices as long as I was quiet. The other children would sometimes laugh at "Stupid Curly" and ask me to draw a picture of a "smart person" for them.

It was a relief when I was asked to work in the nursery, with children who saw me as one of the "big girls" and didn't care about the shape of my hair or whether I could do my sums. I enjoyed the work, where I didn't have to think if I didn't want to. I liked Sister Mary talking to me, even if I was still unwilling to respond.

I was twelve when Sister Mary died. Her anorexia had finally destroyed her life and the other nuns and Father Scott used it as an object lesson to the children in their care – we had to eat our dinner and be quiet at meals and be grateful for food, or we too would die like skinny Sister Mary. I wasn't as sad over the loss of a companion as I was for poor Molly, who was now two and quite attached to the kindly nun. At her funeral mass, I promised God that if Sister Mary got into heaven despite her eating disorder, I would take care of Molly.

Molly was four and I was fourteen, and she was playing with the pages of a picture book. I was busy cleaning up after a particularly messy six-month-old named Noah, and not really paying attention.

"Curly?" I had never summed up the courage to have the little children I worked with call me Mildred.

"Yes?" The tiny boy had retched in a corner of the carpet, and I was focused on the stain.

"Why do I not have a Mommy and Daddy?"

"Pardon?" I turned quickly, almost dropping my hand in some of the sticky yellow puke.

"Jesus and the Birjin Mary and Joseph," she continued, "In this story the little boy has a Mommy and Daddy. Why do I not get one?"

I stalled. "It's 'Virgin Mary' Molly, with a 'V.'"

"Why?"

"Because that's how it's spelled." I began scrubbing the floor with much more force than it needed.

"No, why do I not have a Mommy?"

I tried to continue scrubbing the floor, and ignore the little girl's question, but I knew the searching look in her eyes, the sadness etched at the corners of her mouth. I prayed in that moment that I did have an answer.

"And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose." I quoted, a little irked that my Catholic upbringing would rear its taunting head when I least wanted it.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that God knows what he is doing." I had tried to make sense of this verse more than once myself. "Some way, it will all be good."

"But what if it isn't?"

"Is not," I corrected. "And it will be," I promised, immediately regretting it. Sometimes I questioned if anyone but God could make those type of promises.

"Okay," she surrendered and returned to her book, more interested now in the pictures than the presence of parents.

I once wondered that if I had truly believed in what I told little Molly, it would have become true. Two Decembers later, in the coldest winter I could remember, Molly died of pneumonia.

If I had ever believed in God, I trusted him no longer. I ran away from the children's home.

**Reviews are welcomed.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This story will be updated on Tuesdays and Fridays; I have already written it, and done much of the editing, so I can promise you I'll be consistent. If not, feel free to run me over with a shiny silver volvo - or a bright yellow porsche.**

Chapter Two:

The Corner of Johnson and Colley, Winter, 1939

The road was narrow. The windowless walls that towered on each side kept it in the shade, and it would have been tempting to call it an alleyway, if not for the sign on the corner: Johnson and Colley. Johnson Street was wide and welcoming; filled with the bright stalls of a marketplace and storefronts representing a variety of trades, it was busy and noisy and the midday sun poured into every corner. Colley Road, situated between a questionable wine merchants' and a tiny store touting costume jewelry, was dank and nearly empty. Water dripped from the icicles hanging from the pipes along the walls onto the dirty street; the puddles were like ponds in the middle of the snow covered pavement. Over the din of the patrons of Johnson Street, you would hear nothing of the activities of Colley Road – but in the shadows, if you looked closely behind stacks of empty wooden crates and used barrels, you would see the hasty movements of clandestine business.

Between that questionable wine merchants' and the tacky jewelry store, dealings were less honorable. Colley Road wasn't as well known to the wealthy as the marketplace, but to those of us who had all but lived on the streets, this was the place to sell our wares.

_Wares_. I shuddered at the thought, though to any observer it would just look like my thin dress didn't cover me properly from the cold – it didn't – but I had grown numb to the chill. I had hoped never to arrive at this place – to become one of _those _people. Growing up in a Catholic orphanage, there was a stigma to _those_ people. Maybe because we were the lucky ones that didn't have to sell ourselves to live.

But now, I did. Standing as far away from the entering customers as I could, I watched the hushed interactions, the quick discussions and stealthy movements away from the narrow road. Could I really do this? Maybe if I sunk back further towards the wall, no one would see me, I wouldn't _have_ to do this. But I needed the money; I was hungry, and the lady in green – I never did learn her name – wouldn't let me stay another night without reimbursement.

Standing there, in that freezing almost-alleyway, I felt an odd sense of foreboding – like I had crawled into a pit I was never going to come out of; today was the third of January, my birthday, though that hardly seemed significant anymore. The afternoon was wearing on; more "customers" would be arriving soon. I'd have to step away from the wall at some point. Still, my feet resisted my brain's commands; I didn't want to move away from here. I was terrified, and so my thin shoes sank just a little further into the snow.

I tried to reason with myself. I was worthless anyway; nobody wanted me, nothing that I did would ever amount to anything. I knew that; the harsh reality had been drilled into me my whole life. Nobody wanted to be associated with me; nobody bothered to give me a second glance.

Maybe no one would give me a second glance tonight. Maybe this wouldn't prove to be lucrative – and I would _have_ to find another way to pay the lady in green that had given me a place to stay.

Except, I was only here because I'd already exhausted all my other options. No one would give a girl like me a job. There were too many of us around the city already, too many of us desperate for money, who would do anything for bread. We were uneducated, unskilled – and the worst – we were girls. There was nothing else for us.

"Missy."

The snarl caught my attention; a man was looking straight at me. He was a large and broad, and his black hair stood on end from the wet of the snow. He pushed his hand toward me; a single dollar bill – more than I had seen in a month. I took it without thinking; before my mind caught up, he was already turned around, and I was going to have to follow him.

As I stepped away from the wall, yet another part of me began to worry. There was supposed to be a little bit more discussion to these transactions, wasn't there? Did he know that this was my first time standing out here in the "alley?" Would that affect his choice? Maybe it was better that he didn't know.

He was tall and dark. Mysterious, but not in an alluring way; there was something almost sinister in the sneer he had worn when he handed me the faded bill. His face was messy, unshaven, and his hair a little bit too long and unkempt. His clothes were nondescript, as if he wanted to fade into the rest of the world, not to be seen. I was certain his attempts were in vain. His face was pale – not sickly, and not albino – and his teeth were the purest white, creepy behind his grim smile.

As I walked behind him I knew that the huddled bystanders were watching. Now in the light, his skin was so pale it was almost luminous, and he kept to the shadows as if the sun would sting. I had to scurry along to keep up, and almost slipped in the icy patches more than once. I doubted this man would help me up though, if I did fall. Something in his manner was decidedly uncivil.

We arrived at a boarded up building – once a one-room home squeezed between the other larger buildings on the street – and, eager to get out of the cold, I almost ran through the door behind the man. I hadn't seen his eyes, but the moment the door closed behind him and we were standing in the dark of the derelict house I decided that maybe it was better that way. I didn't want to remember today, or tonight, or tomorrow. I could not think about what I was doing; I could only keep telling myself that I needed the money.

_No turning back now_, I reminded myself as I stepped towards the man's outline in the unlit room. His shoulders were drooped, and at first I thought he was tired or too tall for the room, before I turned my head the slightest bit, away from a sudden cold draft.

I had been wrong. The man wasn't bent; he was _crouching, _like a cat about to pounce. In the sliver of light, streaming through a crack in one of the boards on a window – where the draft must have come from - I could see a slice of his face. His teeth were bared – ominously sharp – and his jaw was tight as if in anticipation. I should have realized that moving forward was a mistake, and that the last thing this man wanted from me was sex, but all I thought about was my mantra; _I need the money, I need the money_.

I stepped forward once more, so that we stood close enough to smell each others' breath – hopefully temptingly close. I heard him inhale sharply, and I hoped that he wasn't repulsed by the stench of a girl from the streets. I turned my face upwards, pasting on a sultry smile, desperate for my jaunty movements to fade into seductive swayings.

Instead, all the breath _whooshed_ out of my lungs. I began to stumble forward, catching myself on his rock hard arms, and propelling myself backwards – as far away as I could. His skin had been cold – as cold as the snow outside – and as unmoveable as stone. My hands ached more from touching him than my ankle did from being twisted, and I clutched the dollar bill tighter in my left hand.

"Please," I begged, perhaps subconsciously for my life, or maybe just for this process to be quick. Nonetheless, instead of unbuttoning my dress like I had intended, I backed further away – though the room was small, and there wasn't much distance left between my back and the wall.

It was from that angle that I finally saw his eyes in the light. I hesitated in my scuttling away, instead of doing the sensible thing and running. They were unlike any eyes I had ever seen; instead of brown or blue or green or gray, they were the deepest of wine reds. A dark ring outside the irises was growing, becoming blacker as his strange smile became more pronounced.

Still, once I'd taken in the extraordinary pair of eyes, I searched for emotion behind them. I saw not lust, but hunger. Suddenly, something clicked in the back of my mind, and I realized now that I should worry. The bared incisors, the cold solid skin, the hunger – the face was somehow unnatural.

His threatening red eyes bore into me; I didn't need the sliver of light to know that he wasn't seeing me as a human, or even as a prostitute.

I was his prey.

This wasn't worth a dollar anymore. Maybe all he wanted was to push me around some; I tried to think of reasons for this non-human behavior. As I kept drawing blanks, he kept moving forward – step by menacing step – and I begged once more – this time for my life - my voice breaking.

"Please."

He seemed to pause for a moment, as if taking my desperation into consideration, before moving forward just as stealthily as before. "No," he barely breathed out, but the seductively sweet scent was enough to freeze my thoughts.

I don't remember how long I stood there, both terrified and captivated. It could have been a minute – it could have been days. All I can recall is a horrible pain, moving slowly – like a fire crawling across my skin.

And then a noise right outside the door – the familiar sounds of a scuffle, a street brawl – and the man was gone. But the pain wasn't.

I was going to die.

I was going to die.

I was going to die, and that was okay, because my life was worth nothing.

Especially not that stupid dollar that I still clutched in my left hand.

**Reviews are welcomed.**


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: In case of any confusion, this is written from the point of view of an original character - one I used in two of my previous stories, and whose backstory I vowed would be told. I am still working in Meyer's vampire-world, and the vampires we already know from this world will have a profound effect on this character's life.**

Chapter Three

Two days and Thirteen Hours Later

My heart was exploding. I was going to become a thousand tiny pieces.

With one final, gut-wrenching spasm, the pain dissolved.

Was that purgatory? Or was it hell?

Either way, this was not heaven. I had grown up around devout Catholics, and I knew what heaven was supposed to be like. No golden crowns or bejeweled pavements adorned this place. Just a dim light from the boarded-up windows, and though I could see details of the room I hadn't seen before, I knew that in my pain I hadn't moved from the ground where that monster had dropped me – was it just hours ago? Or had it been a matter of days? I couldn't tell; time lost all meaning when your only thought was "Somebody, please, find me and kill me." I picked myself up from the ground of the shack, testing my arms and legs in case the pain should return. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; if anything, I felt better than normal.

I took in the room now; no furnishings, but a couple of broken wooden crates lay haphazardly in the corner, and a broken mirror hung on the wall above a boarded-up fireplace. I heard the rats before I turned to see them; the high pitched wails were deafening, as if these rats were terrified of something.

It had been only seconds since my heart had narrowly missed destruction, but already I knew something was missing. This room was too quiet. If I had thought the rats' squeals were deafening, I had missed the overwhelming aspect to the silence. My throat ached and my head pounded with thirst, but my rational side worried about this strange state of things.

I was never an academic child, but my mind was working quickly, and before I realized it I placed my hand over my chest, feeling for what I could not hear.

I had no heartbeat.

No comforting _thump thump_ to fall asleep to.

That man - the monster – his red eyes were seared more perfectly into my memory than any day I had spent in the orphanage. Had he turned me into a monster too?

I was dead now, but I wasn't in heaven with Molly and Sister Mary and my father. I was dead, but I was still alive.

I couldn't think on this conundrum any more though; the scratching in my throat, like sandpaper against a baby's skin, took over. I hurried from the shack and into the empty street, wondering where I would find something to ease my parched lips. I momentarily wondered where that dollar bill had gone – I must have lost my grip with all the spasms and the screams, it was somewhere back in the derelict house.

I stepped into the light, determined to begin my search –

It was blinding. I jumped back into the shadows, away from the burning brightness and took a calming breath. I reminded myself to let my eyes adjust – I had been in a very dark room for hours, if not more.

But I didn't have time to adjust – I needed to find _something. _Something liquid and warm and thick – my mind screamed at me – I slipped along in the shadows of the other rundown houses, searching for anything – anywhere.

I smelled it before I heard movement in the side alleyway. There.

The flow of blood from the young man's throat brought back presence of mind, and I found myself fitting the pieces together quite nicely.

Blood; it was sticky and red and it slid down my throat so nicely and I wasn't so desperate anymore. It was what I had been looking for; my own magic elixir, like taking gulps of sweetened milk. I hadn't given second thought to springing at the man, hadn't even given him enough time to scream. Did it matter to me that I had to kill another man so that I could live?

_At least he'll be in heaven,_ I thought caustically, and then looked down at the face of my first victim.

_I was ten and he was fourteen, and I was sitting on the steps of the dorm and trying to draw, but he had taken my slate and held it up for the other children to see. _

_"Look at this ugly thing!" He chortled in twisted delight. "Such a silly little girl – wasting chalk on a stupid _drawing_."_

_The boys with him laughed and some of the enamored girls whose hair was not messy and did seat neatly in pigtails giggled as well and I felt my cheeks redden and my eyes water. I snatched the slate back and ran down the steps, into the yard, away from the laughing voices._

_The picture had been of what I remembered of my mother._

I saw that face – the laughing boy – and I knew I'd never forget it.

It was that moment that I discovered irony. I felt better now, for having had something to drink. I felt better now, for killing a man who had made my childhood miserable.

Blood; it tasted good. It spilled from this evil being, and justice was served.

I liked blood.

I was a vampire.

Later, I would discover that I could move faster than an automobile – faster, even, than a train. I would step into the sunlight, shading my eyes with my hand, and I would see that my skin sparkled – like the diamond on my mother's ring when it caught the sunlight – and in my amazement I would drop my hand and the brightness would blind me once more. I chose to stay away from the sunlight for a little while.

I would find that I could hear people talking – conversations in the marketplace – when I was supposed to be too far away to hear them. I would see things clearly – details on signs and in the melting snow – that I hadn't noticed. My world was clearer, brighter, shinier.

I would also notice, as I tried to pick up a stone in the street, that I was stronger even than any boy I had ever met – and my fingers would grind the stone to dust. And anytime I passed someone in the empty streets I prowled, I found that their scent – so sweet, so inviting, like no other food I had ever tasted – drew me in, and I would drink.

I would later find that I couldn't sleep and that I remembered every detail of every passing day in perfect clarity – but for that quiet moment, as I stared at the face of the man I had killed – of a man who deserved it – a wave of emotions poured through me, more powerful than any I had ever felt before. I wanted to give him what he deserved! It wasn't enough that he couldn't breathe any more, that no more blood flowed through his veins that he may walk and talk and live. I wanted to hear the sickening snap of broken bones. I wanted to tear his throat out; I wanted to crush his ribcage and rip out his heart. So I did.

I was angry at him; angry at the people who had told me what the world was supposed to be good and that God was good; angry at the man who had killed me, but wouldn't let me go to heaven. Beyond the anger, however, I felt something different – something more potent.

There was a rush in each of my limbs that only a few hours ago had been in such torment. More than adrenaline; strength and agility and _life_. There was delicious danger in the sharpness of my teeth, sweet anticipation for the thrill of the kill.

Little Mildred - Curly, number 2352 – had power. It was a gift, and I was going to use it.

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	5. Chapter 4

**Author's note: This chapter has been edited.**

Chapter Four

Pretty Little Darling 

Albany, New York, 1948

I was angry. Angrier than anyone has a right to be. I had no grounds to be angry at these people, when all I – with my terrifying red eyes and stone cold heart - could see was blood and vengeance and violence. I was angry about other peoples' sins, lapses in judgment and character flaws; things God would forgive. But I didn't like God very much anymore, and I certainly didn't see things the way he did.

I saw people walking around, and from a distance they looked like me. I saw people walking around and sometimes they dressed like I did. I saw people walking around, and they ate the same food I enjoyed as a human. But for all of these people I saw walking around that on the outside were of the same species that I was, I didn't for a moment consider that maybe they thought things through like I did, or felt the same emotions that I did. There was a disconnect between myself and these people, because I was the vampire and they were my prey and I was angry. 

I was angry at all of the people of the world I came across, a great many people who had never done me any wrong. But people were evil and thought evil things and did evil things and they deserved to die for what they did. I remembered that feeling that rose up within me with my first kill, and vengeance tasted so _scrumptious_ and I wanted more. With every kill I fed my rage.

I wanted more sweet blood, so these people deserved to die; it was a perverted form of logic and gluttony at best. Those days, I didn't stop to think much over the philosophy of my murders, over the delight I took. I knew what I wanted.

I was angry, and I desired blood. But sometimes, I forgot.

The little girl was pretty; honey colored curls and sweet shy smile, round pinchable pink cheeks, dressed in a frosting pink dress. When she laughed, it bubbled up from somewhere in her little-girl round tummy, and seemed to float on the air. 

She stood at the edge of a neat garden with a well kept lawn and dainty rows of red tulips lining its edge. Her black patent shoes were a little muddy around the edges from running along the not-quite-dry ground, and one of her frilly white ankle socks had slipped down. She was twirling a buttercup around in her chubby fingers, staring at it with the intense curiosity of a three year old.

I felt a little bit like that three year old myself, crouched in the alley between this house and the next, peering through the hedge. It was a cloudy day, so I'd emerged from my attic hiding place and walked through the town. 

A picture of this pretty little girl would fetch a nice price a few towns away, and so I sketched passionately, thankful for my perfect memory, that I might properly represent the girl in watercolors when I returned to my hiding place. The light from the cloudy day didn't bring out the shine in the girl's curls, but I knew firsthand that not everything was shiny about a beautiful child like this. When she grew up she would be aware of her prettiness, aware of the way 

everyone liked to look at her face and catch a glimpse of her smile and the shining in her hazel eyes. She would lord it over the other children on the playground, the other kids in the classroom. She would say mean things to her friends, but they would take it from her because they got to be friends with the pretty girl.

She would say horrible things to girls with big black frizzy hair.

A movement caught my eye, and I shuffled a few inches back from the hedge. A tall man in a charcoal gray suit walked across the lawn, talking to plump man in a worn tam o' shanter with an equally plump little boy scampering in his stead. The little girl looked up to the face of the tall man – most certainly her father – and smiled. "Daddy!"

The human eye might not have noticed it, but I saw the weed fall from her hand in her gay run. Her father, striding towards her, picked up his little girl in his arms and swung her around – stamping the yellow petals into the dirt.

"Say hello," the stout man instructed his son, who eagerly complied. It was then that the little girl noticed the destruction of the object of her study.

Her face crumpled, but she did not cry. I watched as the men walked further down the lawn and continued to talk business - the stock market.

The little boy noticed the furrowing of the delicate child's brow, and scurried away. At first, I thought he was running from a sure tantrum; _good for you, get away while you can. _Instead, he began scouring the lawn with bulging grey eyes for another pretty little yellow thing, and upon finding one, plucked it carefully and delivered it to his playmate. "Here."

"Fank you," she spoke, her face lighting up at her present.

"Your welcome," he stood a little taller, proud.

Images flooded my mind, faster than I could shake them away.

_Molly. Sick. Dying. _

_Skinny Sister Mary. How the other Sisters would whisper. Sister Mary talking to me. Dying._

_Laughing. Leering faces yelling, "Stupid Curly!" Jabbing their fingers at my drawings._

I dropped my sketch in the dirt.

I moved further away from the hedge into the alley, preparing to make my run through the town and away from the sweet scene of human kindness.

_What a stupid little boy,_ I thought. _Doesn't he know? _

Pretty little girls earned all the privilege. It didn't matter what he did now – a few years down the road, he would find himself like that first buttercup, naivete of youth crushed into the ground. She would have everything and be beautiful and get away with doing horrible things to fat little boys like him.

I couldn't bear to continue the sweet drawing now. Reality had suddenly flown at me from all sides, and I couldn't ignore it.

I was a vampire, and they were the humans. I was angry, and they were stupid.

There was only one solution; I had to make things right here. For that little fat boy, with his ridiculous charity, I could make things right. For Molly, for Sister Mary, for a little girl named Curly, I needed to make things right.

Tonight, the pretty little darling in pink would die.

**Reviews are appreciated.**


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Chapter Four has been edited. Turns out there's a good reason to remember that you've got two different copies of the same chapter before posting.**

Chapter Five

Education

Waltham, Massachusetts, 1948

I sat in the wide branch of a giant oak tree only a few yards outside city limits. The mushroom cloud of leaves on the ancient oak kept me from plain sight – though if memory served, human eyesight at nighttime wasn't sharp. 

Ten years ago, I wouldn't have been able to sit in this tree so calmly, waiting. Ten years ago I had two priorities; sating my thirst and exacting my revenge. Now, I had more refined tastes. There were hundreds of delicious scents filling the air; an olfactory gourmet menu at my disposal. My last meal hadn't worked out so well; it had been too long since I drank. I was hungry for a particular taste, however, and I would wait until I found the right one. 

I had developed a certain favorite over the past decade. Like a dull man who always orders the same pasta-and-meatballs at an Italian diner, I sought one specific meal. 

Blood came in many scents and flavors; fruity, floral, meaty. These flavors came served up in many different decorative dishes; the burly man, the dainty housewife, the scabby-kneed child. What I sought was a certain spice – one I had identified from countless kills.

When I first became a vampire, I devoured every human being in my path; well-fed or impoverished, pretty or disfigured. Every human had one future; they were all going to die. They didn't deserve any pleasantries along the way; there was no goodness in them and they could preach all they wanted about a graceful God, but they were all going to hell. I might make 

it quick and painless for them if I was hungry, but it made my meal that much better if I heard them scream.

Over time, however, I became more cultured. I was sick of chicken; I wanted lamb. It turned out that the flavor of the tormentor – like the man who mocked me as a child – tasted spicy, of success and confidence. I sought out the scent of a tormentor, because I liked the taste. Revenge isn't sweet; it is garnished with a hint of turmeric and red pepper.

As I took inventory of the inhabitants of the suburban town, I sketched. My school girl satchel was my only possession; my sketchpad and pencils were all I needed. Occasionally, I would take some money from the wallet of a meal and use it to pay for a warm bath and clean clothes – I didn't pause to look at my reflection very often, because trekking through America was a muddy business.

Maybe it was a morbid pastime (though I feel confident in saying I lived a morbid lifestyle), but I loved to sketch their faces. For the past few years – as long as I'd been able to handle it – I would take delight in depicting the face of a dead man. It was an exercise in control to finish a drawing of a tortured man – beginning the pain of the transformation before finishing him off – because once I'd tasted the blood it was hard to stop drinking. I kept a collection of my favorite faces in my school girl bag; a reminder of the improvement of my skills, as well as fond memories of my favorite kills.

Tonight I did not draw a face; I drew a room. I had a perfect photographic memory; I put it to good use in drawing my favorite scenes and selling them for a small profit to little art stores in forgettable towns. Every now and then, the sadistic side of my personality would slip the picture of a dead face into the stack of drawings I sold. I never bothered to hang around in the 

shadows and wait for the scream; I was satisfied in knowing that no human could truly appreciate _my_ style of art with a smile.

If not as an orphan, as a vampire I had become patient. I knew that mine was a waiting game, hunting the aroma I craved most. I had been sitting in the tree for hours, drawing by the comforting light of the moon, unaware of the dangerous game I played.

I had never met another vampire since the night I was changed. I did not know what they looked like, if their characteristics were in any way like mine. I did not think twice about my solitary lifestyle; it was what it was. I assumed that all vampires were alike in that way.

My prey that night took the form of a teenage boy; not a huge meal, granted, no more than fourteen years old, but he almost stank of school bully. I tracked him all the way from the highway out of town, where he passed in his father's car, napping after a long day trip into the big city. I wondered, as I ran in the shadows following the road, if he had perhaps gone to be entertained by a baseball game or maybe sat in his daddy's plush office, bored out of presence of mind.

Ignorant as I was, I did not recognize the sweet perfume of fellow creatures of the night lilting through the air. I was focused entirely on my pray – on the sweet pulse just under his skin. He was younger than I was; I would not torture him tonight. But maybe his father had been a tormentor in his youth; maybe it was just his bad upbringing, his parents' exposure of him to privilege. Wouldn't it be a sweet surprise for them, when they came to wake up their precious boy and he didn't move? Didn't even breathe; oh, I could almost smell my own anticipation it was so thick.

Had another vampire stepped in and stolen my prey from me – for at this point, he was _mine_ – I would have tracked him down and killed him with every ounce of viciousness I possessed. My rage, though dimmed, was not equaled. He would pay.

I stood in wait in the shadows of the house, away from the streetlamps, listening for the telltale sounds of long, steady breathing. A light, peaceful sound – the man-child was asleep. Ten minutes later a heavier noise, a grunt of a snore – the father was asleep. I waited a half hour more for the mother to drop off; her instincts might have worried her about her son's safety. Finally, it was safe for me to enter the house.

I took no liberties; I climbed through the window, breaking the lock in the process, though that would matter little to this family in the morning. He looked almost innocent in the moonlight, eyes flitting around underneath his eyelids – dreaming - wrapped in soft blankets. I did the job quickly; snap the neck, relish the blood, savor the last moments of life, and then make my escape.

I was running – high from the excitement of the kill – halfway back to the highway when I heard footsteps behind me. They moved quickly, faster than human feet, and lightly, like a cats. I stopped and turned around slowly, finally able to smell this foreign creature. 

"Who do you think you are?" His voice and face were nondescript, but in his features I could recognize many of mine; he was a vampire.

"I don't know," I couldn't remember the last time I had been nervous; not since my change.

"_We_ were feeding here," a female voice said, stepping into the moonlight next to the man. Her hair reminded me of spilled red paint, wilder and frizzier even than my own, creating its own path away from her face.

"I'm sorry," I was unfamiliar with any vampire laws, but I was pretty sure they considered me an intruder.

"You bet you are," the male voice snarled. "Trying to steal food from nice people like us."

"It was just boy," I said, willing my stuttering voice to calm, "I meant no harm."

"Aww, James," the woman said, "she's probably young. Probably doesn't know how things are for us."

I jumped on that. "I've never met another one – of us, I mean."

The man "James" considered this. "So now you know. Don't get in the way of someone else's feast."

I nodded vigorously, and watched as they turned to leave.

"By the way," the woman turned back around. "Be careful. Hide the evidence and _don't_ let anybody see you – they're pretty vigilant about that type of stuff."

"Thanks." I didn't know who "they" were, but I got the gist of it. As far as anyone else knew, vampires didn't exist.

I wondered briefly that the town wouldn't notice multiple deaths in one night, but didn't ponder too long. I had never run faster from a place as I did that night.

But now, I knew what to look for – what they smelled like – so I could keep out of trouble. I was fairly certain that if it hadn't been for the red-headed woman, I would be dead.

**Reviews are appreciated.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay – I know I promised to get this to you on Tuesday. It turns out, I'm not infallible. Grrr…**

Chapter Six:

Santa Monica, California, 1949

It was a nice evening, for winter. I'd found that Californian winter was nothing like winter further north. To start with, there was no snow, which meant that my clothes didn't get too dirty. Of course, the woman who'd rented me my room had looked at me strangely, with my pale skin. I told her I was a traveler from Canada, and she never questioned it.

I walked through the small town now, unnoticed in the winter dark. It was suppertime, and in this neighborhood the dining rooms all faced out onto the street. I passed many families sitting around the table, eating, talking. I wasn't paying attention to them, wasn't searching for anything to eat. I just needed to move, to clear my head.

Something had changed in me, and I couldn't figure it out. There was certainly no conscious decision, no major change in attitude. It had been nagging at me since I'd watched the little boy doting on the pretty little girl – a girl I couldn't, after all, bring myself to kill.

Why couldn't I kill her? I knew what she would grow up to become. I had power, and the responsibility to use it. I knew what would happen as the little boy grew up, too. If not her, it would be someone else. Always someone laughing, always someone mean; it was the way the world worked. I felt pathetic, useless; I couldn't save anyone.

It kept going through my head, a thought I couldn't shove away. The little girl could change. The little boy could become thin and handsome. I wasn't God; I didn't have that kind of power.

And then I snorted; when was the last time I had thought about God? Who was he to me anymore? I would live forever; I didn't need him or his broken promises anymore. When had I worried about stepping on his toes?

Still. I turned to the humans around me for proof. They were unworthy to live, by anyone's standards, weren't they?

It was then I discovered something disturbing. I crouched under the front window of the first house I came to, listening to the dinner conversations. Maybe this father was a lawyer who'd swindled from a bankrupt family. Maybe this mother gossiped about the poor single mother living across town. Maybe this daughter slept with her boyfriend, even though she didn't love him. Maybe this son cheated on his homework.

Instead, this father talked about his job as a firefighter – about the baby he'd saved from a burning building, and how grateful its parents had been. Instead, this mother talked about organizing a welcome party for Nancy next door, who was new to the neighborhood. Instead, this daughter talked about a new dress she wanted to buy; shallow, but innocent. Instead, this son spoke of his high hopes for next weeks' basketball game.

I moved away from the house, disappointed. The family was a sweet picture; laughing, smiling, listening eagerly as stories passed around the table. Maybe I would paint it someday, but right now I had to find proof that I was right. This had to be an anomaly. Families couldn't be happy. People couldn't be innocent.

Two houses down, a mother fussed over her crying baby. She told her husband he spent too much time worrying about the stock market instead of helping her. He told her he had to worry about money now, because of the baby. She asked if he didn't want the baby. He told her that he loved the baby, was glad to spend extra time saving up for its college education. He told her he loved her. She kissed him.

It was too sweet. Every house I turned to, no matter how many problems they had or mistakes they made, these families were _happy_. They had no malicious intent. No evil tendencies. I didn't want to be wrong – couldn't be wrong! I based my entire lifestyle on these assumptions. On my own experience! How could I be wrong?

But – I couldn't let this happen to me. I had to think it through. Had to remember my years at the orphanage, remember my rage. I returned to my rented room and sat on the bed, head in my hands.

Once it occurred to me, it was impossible to ignore. Had I brought this upon myself? I couldn't control the stock market crash, or my parents' subsequent downfall, but there was plenty else I could control. Maybe if I had made friends, instead of closing in upon myself. If I had listened in class – no matter how odious – I wouldn't be called "stupid." And there would be no one to call me Stupid Curly, because I would have friends, and they would know that I was Mildred. If I had chosen to talk to Sister Mary, instead of just silently soaking up her stories, she might have felt loved, might not have starved herself. I could be thankful for the years I had with Molly, like a little sister to me, instead of angry.

I couldn't change that all now, however. I was still here, still stuck, a vampire. I was no longer angry at the humans, but at myself. What was I to do?

I pulled out my sketch pad, and began my drawing of a family around a dinner table. Margaret Rose; I couldn't remember her, so I drew her as I imagined her, serving up a roast. My father, with a smile and a carving knife, telling me a story. Myself, a sixteen year old girl with plain brown eyes, not a monster, but a happy teenager in a pretty pink dress, laughing at something my father had said.

It would never be, but it was a pretty picture all the same. This one, I wouldn't sell.

**Reviews are appreciated.**


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven:

Los Angeles, 1949

In a big city like this, I could find plenty of my special type of sustenance. Gangs and bullies, angry Hollywood starlets rich because of their pretty faces; the place was replete with moral free swine.

Yet, my search for that perfect sip to tantalize my taste buds had dimmed. I was no longer the eager hunter – in fact, I had become reluctant to sup at all. Reluctant to remember the taste of the perfect meal, lest I murder once more.

Realization sneaked up behind me and hit me with a paralyzing blow to the head – much like the way I hunted my own pray. It didn't matter anymore that I was thirsty, or that I was angry. Rage had dimmed; now a flickering candle in a storm, it wouldn't last long.

The red haired woman had given me a second chance. Sister Mary had given me a chance to make something of myself. Even the freak that had bitten me in the first place had given me a second chance at life, in a twisted way.

My victims? None of them had received a second chance from me.

I remembered my first kill with such clarity, frequently recollecting it as the most joyous moment of my unhappy life, learning of my capacity for revenge. That familiar face lying dead in the street beside me; had I ever wondered for a second how that man had turned out, after he left the orphanage behind?

I remembered the families I had seen through the windows. Jealous, yes, but also confused, I watched love and happiness and kindness and support unfold in every scene.

It seemed more and more now, to me, that these humans weren't so terrible. Now, looking at the grotesque drawings spread across the bed I didn't use, the lights of the Los Angeles streets I wouldn't hunt shining through the window, it seemed more and more now that I was the terrible one.

I had fed, but only out of thirst, on the first homeless man I had encountered. It was a dull Sunday in February, where the rain started and stopped almost as much as the traffic and I could walk through the open-air market unhindered by my shiny skin.

I wasn't much interested in the wares being sold, all my concentration going towards ignoring the smell of the people milling about. When I felt strong enough, I listened to haggling and gossiping and general chatter.

It was a big city, and I shouldn't have been surprised to see another one like myself here, but I jumped when my nose finally caught up to my predicament, having been too occupied with the tasty smell surrounding me.

He knew I was here, I could see it in his tense posture, though he worked hard to appear casual, browsing the stalls. Even in his state of distraction, I knew that he had the eye of a seasoned buyer, and I wondered if he had a sweetheart he was buying for. I thought about moving away - I did not want a confrontation in this street, and I'm sure he didn't either – but in my fear my feet had frozen themselves next to a stall filled with handmade crafts.

I wanted to let him know that I meant no harm, that I would leave right away, but I was terrified. I chided myself; _after all this, you're scared of vampires._

If he was angry, and wanted to hurt me, it would be better to do it away from here. I knew of a deserted spot by the railroad tracks only a mile or so from here, but that would involve approaching him, and convincing him to move away from the crowd. I was mindful of the red-haired woman's advice; if there was a vampire police of some kind, I didn't want to be their next arrest.

The man – tall, with tousled reddish-brown hair – was looking straight at me now, his strong jaw locked, but his eyes curious. I briefly wondered that he would make an interesting study for a portrait, before turning my gaze to look him in the eyes. Maybe I could project an air of confidence, and he would take my words seriously.

He tilted his head in the direction of the railroad tracks I'd been thinking about earlier, as if to say, _come on._ When he started walking, I didn't think of doing anything other than following. Once again, I was the one infringing on someone else's feeding grounds, and I refused to be a coward about it. Cowardly Curly was the old me. The unhappy, bruised, orphan me. Faked confidence was the new me. I snorted, aloud. The man didn't react.

His gait was quick, and I scampered to keep up with him, constantly pulling back to keep the humans around us from wondering at my speed. A part of me was afraid to get to close to this man. The other was curious. My hands were already itching to draw.

Soon enough, we were away from the crowds, and I caught up to him, staying only a cautious step behind him. I could smell him more clearly now, away from the humans, and I wondered again how many times I would make this mistake before I just hid out in the woods away from the possibility of meeting any and all other vampires.

He chuckled under his breath, and I wondered what spurred it. This curious creature I would definitely remember the next time I pulled out my pencils.

There was a single palm tree sitting at this lonely edge of the track, and the man moved to stand under it. There was no place to sit, and the shade – should the sun emerge – was minimal, but I was in a good position to run if I needed to. I stood before him, and spoke all in one breath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know there was anyone else around here and I'll get away as quickly as I can – and I only had one, a homeless man, so don't worry, there's plenty left and – I'll go now."

I had begun to turn when he chuckled again, the side of his mouth twitching into a smile. "That's okay. You are welcome to stay. This isn't my territory."

"Oh." I wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

"We haven't had a proper introduction yet." The man put out his hand.

I reached out cautiously, and he gripped my hand in his and shook it. A polite gesture, I remembered. He introduced himself, "Edward." I remained silent.

"What is your name?" He asked as if to remind me of my long-forgotten manners.

"My name?" How was such a simple question so hard to answer? "Everyone called me – "

"No," he was abrupt, but he was also kind, instead of stern. "What is your real name?"

"I don't have one." It was the truth. If I ever did have a real name, I had forgotten it now.

"You need a name." His voice was filled with genuine surprise, and none of that censure I had expected.

"I've done pretty well without one so far."

"But now," there was a laugh to his tone, "you need one."

It wasn't hard. For all of my human recollections, this one surprised me the most, slipping off my tongue like the sweetest, purest of blood after a month of fasting. It wasn't my real name, but it meant something to me – it carried a special sort of holiness within its tender syllables.

"Molly." I didn't want to be Curly anymore. Molly was pure, innocent; had not committed the crimes I had.

Edward smiled, "It's nice to meet you, Molly."

"I'm pleased to meet you as well, Mr. – Edward." I wondered if I looked as foolish as I felt.

"Cullen." He provided, before adding, "I won't hurt you." His eyes were doing all the convincing.

"Oh, but I might – hurt me, I mean."

"You shouldn't do that."

"Okay." I was still afraid, and I worried that it was written all over my face. Maybe, if I were to distract myself, he would be distracted also.

"Why did you choose this spot?"

"It's quiet," He spoke in a low voice, as if to emphasize the fact. "And it's isolated, should there be a confrontation."

I wondered briefly if he was some sort of mind reader, and was mocking me.

"You look hungry," he observed, his voice tight as if restraining a laugh.

"Do I?"

"I admit, I was surprised to see you amongst the humans, with your eyes so dark. You should be careful, and not do something stupid."

"I'm sorry, sir." Perhaps he was one of those vampire-policemen. "I was restless."

My fingers were itching harder now, and I began to memorize the lines of his face, the color of his hair, his excellent posture – though he looked so relaxed throughout our conversation. I was eager to draw him.

Except for one, slightly confusing, point. I had only met three others of our kind before, and they all stuck out in my memory with their loathsome red eyes. I had those same red eyes. He did not. His eyes were the purest of gold. Manners tossed to the wind, I had to ask.

"Is there a reason for the strange color of your eyes?"

He answered promptly, without a hint of offense. "I do not consume human blood."

I took a moment to consider that. "Well, then, what do you eat?"

"Animals; whatever local wildlife has to offer. My entire family does."

I gulped. Entire family? Though this man had been fair, I shuddered to think of other vampires that were not so generous towards me.

I was silent for a moment more, as his first words began to sink in. He drank from _animals_. Perhaps there was a way to get rid of my guilt.

"Do they taste good?"

"It takes some getting used to," he conceded after a brief moment's deliberation. "Why do you ask?"

The words were tumbling out of me; I held no control.

"I don't like myself any more. All I see is blood, everywhere I go. I don't want to be angry any more, and even if I am angry, I really ought to be angry at myself, instead of all of those silly innocent humans. What did they ever do to me?"

He chuckled, but it was a kind noise. "What did they ever do to you? You feel guilty."

"Yes," I nodded, looking away and studying the palm tree, "yes I do."

"That, Miss Molly, is called a conscience."

"Are we supposed to have those?" It seemed ironic, a vampire with a conscience.

"Some of us do."

"But, I'm not some sort of freak, then?" Hiding out in the woods sounded better each minute.

"No, hardly."

I turned to look at this man once again, and was struck with the odd truth.

I had studied the way he walked and talked and dressed – and his eyes! – he looked older. But as I looked at his face, remembered the smirk on his lips, I realized that this was no man. He was a boy, barely older than I was. This would be a brilliant painting.

"I must go; I have some business to attend to." he spoke clearly, though now his voice was devoid of emotion. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I wish you well – maybe we will meet again."

"Likewise. Thank you, sir," I dipped into a curtsy, and felt silly once more. He began to walk away, and I suddenly I was filled with questions that needed answers. If only I hadn't been so afraid; perhaps I would have found out more about his strange lifestyle.

I had just decided to return to my room, when Edward turned to look at me again, the crooked smirk adorning his smooth features.

"I would rather you not show that painting to anyone. Though perhaps, if we meet again, you could show it to my mother. She would be very pleased."

And then he was gone. Frozen to the spot, I turned to survey the bareness of my surroundings and the railroad tracks. I couldn't help it; I laughed. It came tumbling out of me, and if I could have cried, tears would be streaming down my face.

A mind reading vampire; who would have guessed.

It was evening before I could stop laughing, and returned quietly to my room, to begin sketching. Should I ever meet the unusual Edward Cullen again, I would be prepared.

**Reviews are appreciated.**


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight:

Montana, 1949

Edward Cullen had told me that it was an adjustment to get used to consuming animal blood, but I wasn't prepared for how much of an acquired taste it really was. The first deer I killed reminded me of how much I hated the flavorless bread the orphanage had served with every meal. Eugh.

But I had to do this. I couldn't walk amongst the humans anymore; it was too tempting, and too _depressing_.

Even from inside my rented room, I could smell them – and knowing that I couldn't have one the moment I was thirsty again – it was horrible. I could hear the rushing of blood every corner I turned. I could hear the pumping of hearts with every step I took. Warm and sweet and I couldn't have it. I would move and I'd picture a delicious massacre. I would breathe and think of all the different flavors; a buffet, right in front of me.

I had slipped up twice already; each time my reasons for the change in diet hit me swiftly in the chest. I had killed another one, and I didn't know if it deserved to be killed. I sank into myself, hid in my room, drawing to keep my mind away from thinking about them. Holding my breath to keep from smelling them. Biting my tongue, so that the hurt would overshadow my thirst for them.

It was the end of my second week of trying, when I realized exactly to what extent my monstrosity was. I was wandering in the night air – while the humans were safely ensconced in their beds – clearing my nose and my head. It was quiet, except for the shuffling of some street urchins, who I vowed to ignore.

"Miss?" The shuffling had become louder, and I assumed they were following me to pilfer something. If I walked fast enough, maybe they'd leave me alone. I didn't have any money on me anyway.

"I'm sorry," I said, turning slightly. "I have no money."

"No, Miss," the voice urged. It was a young boy, towheaded and dirty cheeked, no older than seven. He held up a picture. "Have you seen this man? My daddy?"

Even away from the lamplight I didn't have to strain to see the picture. I recognized the face of the homeless man I'd killed before my encounter with Edward. I turned from the little boy.

"I'm sorry." And then I ran.

The next day I paid my rent, sold most of my art, and headed for the hills. I stopped caring about the wind and the mud and the occasional rain – the clean air was so much better. No humans; just the animals and my drawings and me.

I had a map and a good sense of direction, enough to keep me away from towns and traveling to new parts. I couldn't stay in Southern California; it was too bright there. I was making my way north; how far, I wasn't sure. I was thinking Canada. Somewhere with lots of space - and few humans - would suit me well.

I was finishing up with a not-so-tasty mountain lion when I smelt it. There was another vampire – close by – the scent was strong. How did I never notice these things until it was too late? Maybe my nose was defective.

"Mountain lion is my favorite, you know."

It was Edward Cullen. The one that could hear what you were thinking. Was his family nearby, preparing an ambush? _Stop it!_ I chided myself. I couldn't let stray thoughts like that go around people like him.

"Don't worry about it." I turned to look at the man that had just replied to my thoughts.

"Hello?" It came out less like the calm greeting I'd imagined, and more like the scared squeak of the animal I'd just killed.

"Welcome to Montana." He put out his hand for me to shake again. I looked at my bloody, dirty hands and looked back up at him.

"That's okay," he pulled his hand back.

"I'm just passing through," I said. I needed to make that clear.

"As am I," he spoke. "I was out hunting with my brother; I must have run further than I realized."

"Right," I found myself nodding and processing. He had a brother; brothers were bad. Brothers were more prone to violence than sisters would be. Unless he was as civil as this man was, but I wouldn't hold out hope. I remembered the three other vampires I'd met in my life. Definitely violent creatures… _Stop thinking!_

He was smirking, and I decided to extricate myself from this awkward situation. "I'll be going now."

"Wait – " I turned around, "did you ever draw your picture?"

"Oh," I opened my bag, "here." Thank goodness for the foresight to wrap the painting in wax paper; my hands were a mess.

"Wonderful," he took it, and handed me some bills in return.

"Oh, I couldn't," I didn't want to take the money – but a shower and some new clothes would be nice.

"Take it," he insisted. "And, if you want, my family and I are traveling up to Alaska soon – to visit some friends in Denali. They're like us, too. You could come. I'm sure they would be glad to take you in, help you with your new diet. I'm afraid you probably could not stay with us – there's too many of us already – but you are more than welcome to travel with us."

I hesitated; even if I wasn't terrified of this vampire, I wasn't sure about the rest of them. Even if I was, I was in a state; my dress was torn and muddied and bloodied, not to mention my hair.

"We have showers – and cars. No more running in the mud."

"Yes," my mouth answered before my brain could catch up. The offer of a shower was just too enticing.

He held up the painting. "Esme will love this; thank you."

I followed him out of the woods, unsure of what I had agreed to, or where on earth I was going.

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	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Denali, 1951

I shouldn't have been scared of Edward's family. From his "parents" to his "sisters," they were a wonderful group of people, so much kinder than anyone – human or vampire – I had met before. When they introduced me to their friends in Denali, telling them of my struggles with my new diet (because, in comparison to the self-control of the Cullens, especially the good doctor Carlisle, what I had so far was nothing more than luck), it was mere moments before I was accepted into the coven. Carmen immediately set to mothering me and preparing a room for me – my own bedroom! – my own mother figure! – and her husband was more than happy to show me the lay of the land.

I wasn't sure what to think of the three sisters; Tanya, Kate, and Irina. They were infinitely more beautiful than I would ever be, blessed with the natural grace of figure and poise. I, in comparison, was a mess – wild hair and my face was all angles. I felt alternately ugly standing near them, or just plain. The years they had lived – the myths they had started – intimidated me, though I would never say that aloud. The three women were encouraging, helping me when hunting, and comforting me on the days I felt most depressed. Still, I didn't know if I could count them as friends – I didn't even know if I wanted friends.

Thus uncertain, I burrowed into myself again, like I had when I first entered Our Lady's Children's Home, all those years ago. In the beautiful mountains of Denali, I found infinite inspiration and spent most of my time painting, drawing, molding, carving, sewing – my art became my escape from this surreal reality I found myself in. It turned out, though I did not learn this until later, that many vampires bring "special" abilities with them into their next life – like Edward's mind-reading. I was always a particularly artistic individual; now, I was immensely creative. Carmen encouraged my art, understanding that I might need time before I truly felt like a member of the family, though simultaneously frustrated that I was so disengaged. Eleazar simply, and wordlessly, provided me with the tools for my craft: a sewing machine; bolts of material; sketchbooks; an easel; a potter's wheel; a toolkit. I was given possession of a shed, where I might be as messy as I liked, and frequently I would walk out there to find another wrapped package on the doorstep, or set up in the middle of the floor of my workshop.

Distracting myself was never a conscious decision; I just didn't have the confidence enough to make myself comfortable in my new lifestyle. Refusing to join in was just easier; that way I wouldn't get hurt later.

"Molly, have you read the book yet?" Tanya leaned against the kitchen counter, where I sat at the table.

_Yet? _I glanced at the wall calendar. It was the early AM on Wednesday; book discussion day, Irina's pick. I remembered my copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_, sitting primly on the dresser in my room. I'd read it the same day I'd been given it, thankful for some new amusement. I always read the books, in case I _did_ choose to join in the discussion. I never had.

"Yes," I nodded, and turned back to the magazine I was looking at. The new styles gave me great ideas for new patterns.

"Well, feel free to join us tonight, okay?"

"I'll think about it," I said. I said this every time; it was code for "No."

"You do that," she smiled at me – her face so perfect, and her manner so honest – and left the room, seeking out one of her sisters.

The conversation with Tanya was a weekly conversation, almost routine. Carmen caught me off guard an hour later, however, with her own topic for discussion.

"Molly, can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Certainly," I looked up from my work – sketching designs – and forced the edges of my mouth upwards. I tried my hardest for Carmen; she tried so hard for me.

"You've painted portraits of all of us," she began, indicating to the massive entryway, where the family portraits hung over the staircase. "I would love it if I painted one of yourself to display as well."

I hesitated; my "No" was stillborn. Carmen had caught me here; she knew that I wouldn't deny an opportunity to sit at my easel with my paints and a brush and while the hours away. "How soon do you want it?"

"As soon as you can," she said, with a knowing smile, "I got a call from Esme Cullen a few hours ago; she's on her way up for a visit, she'll be here tomorrow."

"I'll get to work."

Esme Cullen frequently came up to Alaska "for a visit," particularly when Edward and Rosalie's squabbling became too much for her, with Carlisle at work all day and Emmett only egging them on. A year ago, two new vampires came into the mix; a tiny, bouncy girl named Alice, and her mate, the tall and serious Jasper. I supposed that now, with so many people running (and bouncing) around her household, the noise level would make anyone scamper for cover.

Unfortunately, Esme's visits sent Carmen and Irina into a flurry of cleaning and "neatening up" – to which Tanya and Kate only laughed. Eleazar was usually roped in – less than eagerly – and I quietly did as I was told, glad once again for the distraction.

I took the mirror from my bathroom and set it up in my shed, where I could look at it and paint without moving too much. It was still early, but there was just enough light in the room, through the lone window, to begin my work.

I didn't spend a long time looking in mirrors; having given up on hope for my hair, I usually gave my reflection only the most perfunctory of glances. Now, I had to really learn it, and I wasn't sure I would enjoy the exercise. I felt like plain, stupid Curly all over again.

I knew Esme liked my paintings – she would ask for one of Alice and Jasper each soon, I supposed. I knew Carmen loved them; she told me every chance she got that she appreciated my work. With that in mind, I began to work.

As a vampire, I had some sort of supernatural speed; I moved quickly, and it was only a matter of hours before I decided I was finished. It was mid-afternoon; the light entered the shed differently now, bringing out different hues in my painting. I sat back and observed, unsure of what to do next.

Physically, the picture looking back at me wasn't as bad as I'd remembered. A bath and clean clothes had done some miracles over the past two years. My black curly hair was tied back by a red paisley rag I used to guard it from paint, and at this angle it didn't look so unruly. My painting dress was faded and splotched with odd colors; it fit loosely from the hours I'd spent moving around in it.

My face was smudged with blue by my eyebrow, but it did not scare me; it was my eyes that made me shudder. They were now the strange golden-yellow I'd observed the day I met Edward Cullen, but they were not the happy, content eyes of the vampires I lived with. They were the frustrated eyes of a woman who was sick of herself. Of a woman who felt guilty for all the lives she'd taken – and rightfully so, I thought. I looked again, wondering what else this painting could tell me about the woman sitting on the stool in front of it.

It struck me as odd, at that moment, as I perused my face. I _wanted_ to be happy. That's why I'd run away from the orphanage, determined to make a life for myself. That's why I'd refused to consume more human blood. And this coven had given me numerous chances to be happy with them – to join in on their fun. It _did_ look like fun.

I remembered the way I separated myself from the other children at the orphanage; I remembered the day I decided that the pain I'd endured had been my own fault.

I wouldn't do that to myself again; I couldn't do that to myself. I _wanted _to be happy.

I stared down the woman gazing back at me. How dare she tell me that, after all this, I didn't deserve to be happy?

But it wasn't a woman gazing back at me, old and tired. It was a sixteen year old girl, barely begun her life.

It was not Little Millie or Stupid Curly. I didn't see either of those people when I saw my reflection. I saw this new girl; this Molly, whom I didn't really know yet.

I decided that I wanted to get to know her. I wanted to be happy.

That night was the first time I joined the book discussion. It was fun, and I _was_ happy.

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	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

Denali, Summer 2008

I stayed with the coven in Denali for forty-five years. My control was nowhere near perfect, but it was vastly improved. After my time there, with the occasional visit from the Cullens to make things interesting, I set off for Europe. It was my mission to study art and visit museums, though I still stayed as much out of the way of humans as I could. There was no reason to taunt the beast.

I returned to Denali after more than a decade of wandering, having gotten my fill of art, and run into a sticky situation in Toulouse.

The Cullens had returned to Alaska since I last saw them; this time, with a new vampire in tow. Edward had, it turned out, met his mate while at school in Washington. Bella was a beautiful creature – whose portrait I was immediately charged with – with a good deal of wit about her, and a similar amount of determination. It was nice having someone with struggling self-control around, if only to remind me how far I had come.

I'd been living back in Denali for a year when Josh joined our ranks. Carlisle and Esme often traveled to some of their other properties for maintenance and other small matters of business; they had found Josh after a brutal attack by a less-than-kind vampire on a local town. He came to stay with the coven, and we fast became friends. I wondered, once, if the others had perhaps hoped they'd found me a mate – but with Josh's intense devotion to God, and my unresolved anger at any and all deities, we would never be more than a brother and sister.

I was sitting outside on the porch railing, sketching the outline of the mountain bathed in the moonlight. Even with my perfect vampire memory, it was easy to forget that there was nothing more beautiful than _really_ looking at nature. The recessed of the slopes, creating patterns on the mountainside, compared with the glistening of the snow in the moonlight was one of the best contrasts I'd ever seen, and I was determined to capture it before I left again.

I knew that I would leave again. I loved living here in Alaska, with all the time and space in the world to _create_ things. But the coven had been together so long – I didn't feel like a member, I felt like a houseguest. Maybe I'd been roaming for so long, used to myself for so long, that I couldn't be a part of an established group.

"Um, hey," I had heard Josh coming, and wondered if he'd join me out here. But, I always got so caught up in my work, he could have been standing there for a half hour and I wouldn't have noticed.

"Hey," I turned and looked at the boy. I would have to paint his portrait soon. He had such an animated face.

"Mind if I sit out here?"

"No problem," I nodded towards the porch swing, before moving to join him on it.

"Find it nice to be outside, and not want to kill everyone within two miles?" I said it with a joking tone, but I meant to let him know that I understood what he was going through.

"You have no idea," he slouched in the swing and looked up at the moon.

"I probably do."

"They tell me you've gotten really good at this – just came back from a tour of Europe?"

"I did," I admitted, "but it took me forty years to get to that point. I'm still no Carlisle."

"The guy's practically a superhero." Josh bit his lip. "Not in a bad, mocking way, or anything."

"Of course not." We sat in silence for a while, with only the sounds of our shallow breathing and my pencil scratching to accompany us.

"I'm so glad to be here," Josh finally said, a sort of reverence in his tone. "Not just to get away. But, it's just, all of the Cullens have _mates_, and it's a little awkward to be around them all the time."

"Apparently, you just missed it," I laughed a little. "This is my first time meeting Bella. Before then, Edward was _fun_ to talk to, always so serious and always over-analyzing the meaning of life, and the rest of us trying so hard not to internally laugh at him because he'd hear anyway. Now, it's all about Bella. Not that I grudge him that. He deserves it."

"Up here, there _are_ a few singletons. It's nice." Josh observed, and then hastily added. "Not the being surrounded by single females – just nice that not everyone's paired off."

"Well, beware of those sisters," I joked, "they act as a unit anyway, they been leaning on each other for so long. Very scary if they team up against you."

I opened a new page of my sketchbook, beginning to work on Josh's face, half hidden by the shadow of the roof over the porch.

"What you've achieved; _that's_ my new goal." He decided, "I want to tour Europe some day."

"Make sure you take me with you," I told him. "Alaska's nice, but I want to get away every so often too."

"And I want to go back to school," Josh added. "Have you done that yet?"

"No," I sighed, "Just online stuff and correspondence courses. You've got to live near a school to go to one."

"Maybe we'll do that then." He said, "We'll get away from the lovey-dovey, and the invincible trio."

"Yeah," I brightened up at that, "a little while down the road."

"Yeah," he repeated, and then stretched. "I think they were talking about watching a movie."

"Bridget Jones? I've seen that so many times."

"It's Rosalie's favorite."

"And Carmen's," I grumbled, and continued with my sketch.

"Esme told me you'd probably start drawing me." He pointed at my sketchbook.

"Consider it your initiation," I joked. "And this is nothing; you've got to sit for your formal portrait as well."

He grimaced. "Sounds like fun."

"For me, at least," I smiled. "So, tell me what you want to see in Europe. We gotta start planning early."

Josh's face rose as he rose to my challenge, "Well…"

And so, officially, my new life began.

**Author's Note:**

**Reviews are **_**still **_**appreciated. I want to thank those of you that have stuck with this story; knowing that has kept me going when I've wondered, "What's the point?" I had a lot of fun writing about Molly, and how she got to where she is in So Fair, and I hope you like the evolution of her character.**

**I don't know what my future plans are, fanfiction-wise. I have gobs of ideas written down, but it's taking the time to write them out and not letting myself be distracted by other plot bunnies… I may focus on one-shots for a while, as I figure out what my next longer story will be (if there is one) and get it all written down before I begin posting.**

**Many thanks to my wonderful beta, leiahlaloa, who is still so enthusiastic about my characters and what happens to them, and allows me to bounce ideas off her, and brings up things I hadn't noticed. **

**I hope to see (encounter via fanfic writing?) you all again down the road!**

**Much love,**

**thesunshinekid**


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